


a little too much of that poison, baby

by majorshipper



Series: after you wake up in vegas [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorshipper/pseuds/majorshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How bad can it be to have a little fun with the charming man offering a drink and a wink? The answer? <i>Very</i> bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Ow,_ is the first thing that passes through Emma’s head. Even behind closed eyelids, the light seems blinding as she comes back to the land of the living.

The last thing she remembers is taking a drink from tall dark and handsome, thinking hey, this can’t hurt. Sure, he may have been dressed like a ridiculously attractive version of Captain Hook, but she was choosing to put emphasis on the _ridiculously attractive_ part of the description.

It can hurt, actually, she determines, and groans, burying her face in the pillows. She can handle her liquor, thank you very much, but she hasn’t been this hungover in a long time. Her head pounds and her mouth feels dry and filthy. She’s thirsty and her stomach is flipping nervously.

_God_ last night must have been monumentally stupid. She would happily stay in bed the rest of the day, but her flight back home leaves at two and she’s pretty sure it’s well into the middle of the morning. Plus, as she slowly starts to realize, taking in the smell of the pillow her face is buried in, this is decidedly not her room. Cracking one eye open and wincing at the brightness, she confirms it. She’s been spending the past few days in a cheap single room, and this is far from that. The bedroom is massive, a larger room visible through an open wide archway and a lot of marble through another.

Rolling over, she finally pries the second eye open to take in the other person in this massive swamp of a bed. His face is buried into the pillow, so all she can see is a head of scruffy dark hair and an impressively lean back covered in scratch marks.

Whoops. Closing her eyes, she tries to fumble through the vague memories of the night before, most of it a blurry mess. She has one surprisingly vivid picture of ripping a shirt open with her teeth? And yup, the man lying naked next to her _is_ in fact the wannabe pirate from the night before.

Careful to not wake him, she sits up, pulling the sheet over her chest as she watches him. She remembers blue eyes and a charming smirk, but neither are there now; eyes firmly shut, face loose in sleep. From what she can see of his neck, there’s a line of dark bruises littering it that she’s one hundred percent sure were _not_ there when she met him. It’s been a long time since a one night stand let her do _that_.

Sure, he’s attractive, especially like this, but, she decides, he’s probably not worth the pounding headache currently stabbing her eyes. God, the flight home is going to be a _nightmare_.

Well, his room looks like it’s practically an apartment; there’s got to be some water and some aspirin around. Quietly disentangling herself from the bed, she reaches for the first thing she finds; conveniently enough, his shirt, a handful of buttons at the bottom torn clean off. It’s not exactly like he needs it right now anyway. She slips it onto her shoulders and pads around the bedroom, peering quickly into the gorgeous bathroom, complete with a huge jacuzzi and glass-sided shower. Nothing there, of course, so she moves into the other room. There’s a couch and desk, a huge window that overlooks the city, complete with balcony. The view looks familiar, but she’s never been out here before and she couldn’t pick out the city’s infamous landmarks if she tried. There are fountains not too far away, and a pretty imitation of the Eiffel Tower.

Turning away from the picturesque scene, she spots the area that looks like a kitchen. She quickly finds a bottle of water in the fully stocked fridge, and a collection of pill bottles that she’d rather not consider the contents of.

It’s a nice suite; really nice, in fact. Nicer than any hotel she’s ever stayed at.

She wonders what her Captain Hook does for a living that he can afford this. In Las Vegas, nonetheless.

Slowly, she meanders through the rest of the rooms before making her way back to the bedroom. She sets the water and the pills down on the bedside table and starts searching for her clothing, tossing them in a pile on the bed before she turns back to the water.

Picking up the pill, she eyes it carefully one last time, making sure it is indeed aspirin. She pops it in her mouth and unscrews the cap on the bottle of water, tipping it back and downing half of it in one go.

It’s only when she pulls the bottle away from her lips that she notices for the first time the glint of something on her left hand.

She nearly chokes, coughing hard to clear the water out of her air pipe as she blinks owlishly at her hand.

There on her ring finger, clear as day, is a simple silver band, sparkling gems inset on either side of the delicate centerpiece, a crystal clear diamond. She blinks again, not really processing what she’s seeing. It’s a gorgeous ring, sure, something she would appreciate if it wasn’t quite firmly set on _her_ hand with no memory of how it had gotten there.

"Emma?" a groggy voice calls from the bed, clearly awoken by her hacking, and she snaps around to him.

He’s just sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at her worriedly.

It takes a _lot_ to make Emma Swan panic. This, this isn’t panic. It’s a perfectly understandable reaction.

"What the _hell_ is this!?”

He winces at her tone as she waves wildly at her left hand. She’s seen this movie before; missing memories, strange bedfellows, _diamond rings_ …it’s like a fucking romantic comedy. Except there’s nothing romantic about this. Not even when he smirks and raises his own left hand, pointing at the plain band that encircles his ring finger.

"It’s a wedding ring, love. Thought you might remember that, though I suppose I did blow your mind not too much later," he says with a wink, but she’s still stuck on the matching ring on his finger, _it’s a wedding ring_ like she should accept the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"A wedding ring," she repeats numbly.

A wedding ring. On her finger.

A goddamn motherfucking _wedding ring_.

Fuck her life.


	2. Chapter 2

"Listen buddy, I don’t know what you think happened last night, but there is no way we’re married.”

Emma very pointedly does not look at him, instead snatching her underwear out of her pile of clothes and turning around so she can pull them on under his shirt. She reaches back for her bra, but instead is met with a very warm, very naked body pressing against her back.

"I’m sure the wedding license is around here somewhere sweetheart. We could…search for it,” he murmurs into the side of her neck, kissing her skin gently as he brings his arms around her. For the first time, she notices the rough accent to his voice, the way it sounds like a growl when it’s whispered into her skin.

It feels good, really good. She almost relaxes into it for a second before she realizes she’s letting a stranger who is allegedly now her husband distract her from her completely justified anger.

She elbows him in the side and quickly ducks out of his embrace when he grunts and staggers back against the bed.

"No thank you,” she mutters, shoving him aside so she can reach for her clothes. He staggers and blinks confusedly.

"Emma, love, listen, we-" he starts, but she whirls on him.

"Stop doing that! I don’t even know your name; I am not your ‘love’, okay? I’m not your ‘sweetheart’, I am not your ‘darling’ or ‘princess’. I’m not your anything.” She tugs her pants on, ripping his shirt off her shoulders and throwing it at him. “I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but you and I are not married. There isn’t a we. You are a one night stand in Vegas. Nothing more. So get the hell out of my way, because I have a flight to catch.”

He stares at her, blinking as she finally tugs her shirt over her head and tugs on the edges to straighten it out. Finally, he seems to regain the ability to speak.

"It’s Killian," he says quietly. Emma blinks and looks up at him, pausing her search for her phone. "Killian Jones, and your things are with your suitcase." He gestures to a small door off to the side.

"Oh." She frowns, scrunching up her face. Maybe she’d been a little too mean to him. But he’d been coming on to her! Normally she wouldn’t mind the morning after with a guy that looked like that, but all this, it was too much. “Thank you,” she says instead, heading where he’d pointed.

The door opens into a walk-in closet, a rack of men’s clothing lining one side, from suits to casual wear. On the opposite side, the hangers are empty, her bag the only thing sitting there. Carefully perched on top of it are her wallet and cell.

"You insisted that we go get it last night; said you didn’t want to have to go to your hotel before your flight," Killian’s voice comes from behind her. Casting a glance back at him, she notices he’s pulled a pair of pants on (finally), but it does little to ease his rumpled attractiveness. He shrugs his shoulders slightly. "And what kind of husband would I be if I’d said no?"

Tucking her wallet and phone into her pants, she straightens and turns fully. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a mix of emotions on his face. He’s not lying; nothing he’s said at all rings as false, which only makes the whole situation worse.

"You seem very relaxed about the idea of marrying a complete stranger in Vegas, you know," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. This is all she has, the offensive.

"Life happens," he says and shrugs his shoulders again. "At least I picked someone with mind to match her stunning body," Killian winks again, and Emma represses the urge to smile slightly at the compliment. Instead, she frowns.

"Still. How do I know you didn’t drug me or trick me?"

His face goes dark, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing. “I have never slept with anyone who wasn’t completely eager, much less married them, Emma.”

They stare daggers at each other for a long moment before he gives, twitching his head to the side with a small huff.

"Besides, I was nearly as drunk as you were. I doubt I could have planned anything like this.”

Rather than dwell on that, Emma shakes her head and reaches down to grab her bag.

"Listen, I have a flight to catch. I’m sorry, but I can’t miss it."

He smiles charmingly. “I know. All you could talk about last night was how happy you were to be getting home.” His eyes twinkle and he steps out of the doorway to let her out. “I actually seem to recall you mentioning that I seemed to be the only decent part of your trip.”

"Wow," Emma deadpans, tossing him a glance, "I must have been wasted.”

And, to her complete surprise, instead of being offended, he laughs. Full and deep, and wow, that’s not attractive at all, that smile. Whoops.

"Aye, lass, I suppose you were. But still gorgeous."

She feels her cheeks heat and desperately tries to find a retort. “You must have been pretty wasted too, then. I know what I look like drunk.”

He shrugs and steps towards her, invading her personal space quite effectively. “Then explain to me,” he says, words soft and rough, “why, right now, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen?”

She must look like a fool, eyelashes fluttering as she processes him. He smells nice, even after a night of drinking and that isn’t fair. He thinks she looks beautiful with her messed up hair and probably very smudged makeup. He’s so close she can feel his body heat, pressing up against her and worming its way into her veins.

What is it about this man?

"I think you’re still wasted, then," she says softly, finally. He leans in closer, so close she could kiss him if she really wanted to. His head dips a little, breath crossing her neck.

"I think you don’t know how to take a compliment, love."

His eyes are searing; blue like the sky, and wow, that’s not sappy at all. But they’re focused on her, intent and unclouded. No lies.

They flicker down to her lips and she dimly registers his hand on her waist, gently pulling her towards him. When he finally brushes his lips against hers, just a soft press, she doesn’t resist. He seems to take it as permission, encouragement, and everything in between. This time, he drags her bodily against him, pressing his free hand against her cheek so he can kiss her again. He nips at her, slipping his tongue against the seal of her lips, sucking and teasing until she opens with a slight groan, hands going to his neck.

It’s familiar and yet entirely new; Emma would guess that’s probably the drinks from last night giving that particular sensation. He certainly kisses her like he already knows exactly what will make her melt in his arms. His hand is tangled in her hair at the back of her neck, tilting her head back while his other slips around her back, holding them together tightly.

He makes a soft whimpering sound and slides his hand around to cup her cheek, to pull her even closer.

Abruptly, Emma realizes what she is doing. Kissing (that is rapidly turning into a full-on make-out) this stranger who knows her far too well and not well enough at all. He’s too close, too much, suffocating in sweetness. She pulls away fast, shoving at his shoulders and sending him staggering.

"I have to go," she forces out, snagging her bag. "I have to go," she repeats, refusing to meet his gaze as she brushes past him and out of the bedroom.

She hears him say her name, once, and then she’s out the door.

… … … .

It’s not until she’s on the plane that she realizes the diamond ring that she had planned on giving back is still sparkling happily on her finger.


	3. Chapter 3

Sighing heavily, Emma shoves open the door to her apartment building. It’s been a long day; hell, it’s been a long _week._ Two back-to-back jobs have left her with an incredible backache, sore thighs from chasing criminals, and the overwhelming urge to sleep for three days. Luckily enough, that’s exactly what she has planned; she’s got the entire weekend off, and possibly Monday if nobody decides to run during her small break.

It’s the first chance she’s had to relax and unwind since, well, since Vegas, she supposes.

Just the thought of that weekend…well. She nearly broke her ankle chasing down her mark, got drunk out of her mind and apparently married some stranger, and then promptly left without bothering to figure out how to undo the damned thing.

On the bright side, however, she definitely remembers more of the better parts of that night. There was definitely a reason why he had seemed so smug(and worn out) that morning.

The elevator promptly deposits her on her floor, and she rounds the corner to her apartment, only to pull up short, brain freeze.

There, leaning casually against the wall, is the devil. He hasn’t quite noticed her yet, eyes focused on her door as though he could stare a hole through it. There’s an envelope under his arm and he’s got a bouquet of flowers against his elbow, a bottle of wine next to his feet.

He…looks good. She hates herself for admitting that, but it’s true. Leather jacket, tight jeans, two buttons undone at his collar, leaning against the wall as though he owns the place, as though he has every right to be here.

He kind of does, admittedly.

That’s when he notices her, a grin breaking across his face as she starts down the hall. He bends down to pick up the bottle and doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest by her lack of reciprocal excitement.

“Emma,” he says, nodding. “You look _amazing_.”

And there he is. Rolling her eyes, she very purposefully leans against the wall next to her door.

“So, Hook,” she begins, and it comes out far more teasing than she intended. “How did you find me, who let you up here, and what are you doing here?”

“Well, first of all, I’ll always find you. A lovely lady let me in when I told her my wife and I were separated and she lived here and I was trying to win her heart back.” He smirked, and Emma rolled her eyes. “As for why I’m here…these.” He reaches under his arm and pulls out the envelope, waving it at her. “Divorce papers, love.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Divorce?”

“Aye, divorce. Unless somehow you’re exceptionally bad at giving encouraging signals and the whole running away from a _kiss_ and spending the next six weeks hiding out in Boston and avoiding my calls was some sign of undying affection. In which case, I’ll gladly shred these and we can make up for lost time.” The way he wiggles his eyebrows is more than enough to imply exactly how they’d be making up.

Emma is silent for a long moment, because he’s not wrong. She hasn’t exactly been avoiding him, per say, just…conveniently wearing herself into the ground so she doesn’t have to answer his calls. In her defense, she’s still dealing with the fact that she just up and _married_ some stranger.

He just looks at her, a sad knowing look, like he can read her, like she’s an open book, the one thing she’s always prided herself at being the opposite of.

“I suppose you want to come inside?”

Shrugging blandly, he leans forward off the wall and takes a step towards her. “We could do this out here if you’d like, but I’m thinking we might need a couple glasses of wine to start off. Unless you fancy straight from the bottle.” The leer that accompanies the suggestion is far from unexpected, and Emma rolls her eyes, turning her back to him so she can unlock the door and shove it open.

He follows close on her heels as she tosses the keys in top of the coat rack and strips off her jacket.

“Here,” he says, handing her the bottle and the flowers so he can shrug his off, and she very studiously examines the label on the wine rather than watching the way the buttons of his shirt pull across his chest and the way his shoulders shift. When she looks up, he’s smirking.

“I can promise it’s good; at least, it had better be, for that price.”

Handing both items back to him, she turns and heads for the kitchen. “Do I even want to know?”

“Well, love, it would be bad form to reveal just how much was spent in this attempt to woo you.”

“To woo me,” she asks, disbelief obvious in her tone even buried to her shoulders in her cabinets, searching for a couple of wine glasses. To be honest, Emma’s not much of a fan of the idea of glasses. When she drinks, it’s more often than not right out of the bottle. He lays down the flowers on the bar and steps into the kitchen.

“Personally motto, darling,” his voice comes from behind her, low and, well, no bones about it, seductive. Before she knows it his hands are resting gently on her waist as he leans in, pressing against her back. “A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

He keeps his fingers where they are, but tips his head forward, nosing at her neck. “And I will fight for you right until you sign on that line, right until the ink is dry.”

Instead of doing what she _should_ do, which would be stepping away with the glasses clutched tightly in her hands, she doesn’t more. “And what makes you think you even have a chance?” It comes out _breathy_ , damn her.

He chuckles.

“Nothing whatsoever. Nothing except I _know_ you. You fancy being alone just about as much as I do, and despite your claims, you don’t hate me. In fact, I’d bet it’s quite the opposite.” He kisses her shoulder softly. “I think you’re scared of the fact that you _do_ feel something for someone after so long. That some drunk mistake, in your mind, might end up being as something amazing.”

She’d much rather ignore his implications, his implicit understanding. So she lets him kiss down her neck and curl his fingers around the front of her sweater.

“Do you always bring divorce papers when you’re trying to seduce someone?” she manages to get out, remaining perfectly still even though she wants to stretch her neck to the side and push her hips back against his.

“Only you, love,” he whispers. “Only you.” His fingers slip under her shirt, rubbing soft circles against her hipbones as his lips travel decidedly north, nipping gently at her ear before kissing her jaw.

It feels wonderful, and yes, Emma could and would gladly let him continue, let him distract them both and she could let him think that he had won, just to have someone here with her, to be less alone. But she’s been given false hope more times than she can count, and she refuses to do the same.

“About those papers,” she says, and grips the glasses in her hand, stepping back into him, forcing him to move. He releases her with a sigh, skin no longer touching, and she doesn’t regret it at all. Not one bit. Snagging the corkscrew, she turns away from him, taking the moment to calm her breathing.

Leading him out of the kitchen, she heads to the couch as he picks up the bottle and the envelope. She settles heavily and reaches out for the bottle. He gladly hands it over and sits next to her, legs touching, of course.

She opens the wine efficiently and pours them each a generous glass.

“Do you anticipate this evening being difficult, Emma?” He asks as he accepts a glass from her, genuine curiosity evident.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs her shoulders and shoots him a look. “I’ve never gotten divorced before.”

“Oh, neither have I. I have lawyers to know these things.” His eyes are fixed on her over the rim of the glass as he takes a sip. Emma raises an eyebrow at him and sets her glass down.

“Lawyers, as in plural?”

“I suppose you don’t remember what I do, do you?” He smiles charmingly and leans toward her. “Lawyers, plural. They tend to hover quite a bit. They’re quite useful, however when I get myself into predicaments.”

“When you say predicaments, do you mean accidental marriage?” Emma deadpans and he chuckles, setting down his glass as well.

“Well, that night did end with me in a bit of a… _predicament_.” His grin turns to a leer and she rolls her eyes again.

“Wow. So mature. So charming. Why am I not falling into your arms right now?” She pretends to swoon, giving him a sardonic look.

“So cheeky. So stubborn. So beautiful,” he says, mimicking her tone, though the words don’t come out right. By now he knows how she feels about compliments; he’s doing it merely to annoy her. That’s what she tells herself when she tears her gaze away from him and takes another swallow of the wine.

“So,” she says, “show me these papers and where I need to sign.”

“Skipping right into the pain and suffering, I see.” He clutches at his chest melodramatically, but reaches for the envelope anyway, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “I don’t really understand it, honestly, but the lawyers, they say that it all means basically that you’re agreeing to not demand half my fortune or anything and then it’ll be like we never even knew each other.”

She dares a glance at him, and he actually seems rather unhappy.

“Half your fortune?” she asks, and no, she didn’t mean to say that, she meant to ask for a pen.

He shrugs and sips at his wine. “I was a boat captain, and then I started a shipping company. It sort of took off, much to my surprise.”

Emma tilts her head to the side, considering it. “I guess that explains the Captain Hook costume.”

He grunts and shifts. “He’s always been rather misunderstood. Peter Pan was the true villain of that story. Bloody demon,” he growls, tipping back enough wine for her to notice that he is already half-way through the more than generous portion. She glances down at hers and takes a sip to even things out. It’s a matter of pride, really, though she does realize that maybe trying to keep up with his drinking is what got them into this mess in the first place.

“You have very strong feelings about a children’s story.”

“Maybe it’s more than a children’s story for me,” he says with a shrug. “But enough about me, tell me more about you.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Jones,” she replies, because he couldn’t be more obvious if he tried. He’s trying to pry information out of her, to build a connection, to make her second-guess her commitment to ending their eternal commitment.

“And what is that, Mrs. Jones?”

“I prefer Miss Swan, actually,” she snaps back, and he chuckles lowly.

“I’ll remember that for later, then, Emma,” he says, voice suddenly quite a bit rougher than before.

She doesn’t miss the blatant implication, nor can she ignore the heat creeping up her neck. Suddenly, she feels every single drop of wine she’s drunk, and hell, it hasn’t been _that_ much. But he’s suddenly looking at her like he could eat her alive, and yes, a small part of her says appreciatively, he is very welcome to try.

Glancing between the papers laid out on her coffee table and what’s left of her wine, she contemplates what’s on the table here. There’s no way he’ll ever convince her to not sign this shit; she would rather be chained to an actual iron ball and thrown in the ocean than stay married to _him_. Anyone, really, but she’s starting to discover that Killian Jones is a dangerous man to be around. She doesn’t want his money, doesn’t want his ring (not where it sits on her dresser, mocking her every time she lays down in her empty bed with a missed call from “Hubby” on her phone), doesn’t want _him_.

That last part isn’t entirely true, but that’s only because the alcohol is getting to her head and she can’t be blamed for being curious; she remembers some, but it’s not enough. It’s really just enough for a taste, a tease of what he’s like in bed. But that’s the only place she wants him, the only way she can afford to want him.

She can always sign the papers tomorrow, right?

Picking up her glass, she downs what’s left of the wine, swallowing hard before turning in her seat.

“I’m signing those papers,” she tells him, and reaches forward to take his glass out of his hands. She resists the urge to finish it off too; she wants to be pleasantly buzzed, not forget this all over again. He doesn’t make any move to stop her, instead tracking her every movement with his eyes. When she rises up off the couch he doesn’t say anything. She draws her hands up, pressing them against his chest and then his shoulders, thumbs brushing under his collar. “I _will not_ be married to you. This,” she says, planting one knee against his thigh, shifting so she can straddle him, back straight, forcing him to look up at her. “This is a _one time thing_.”

“ _Really_?” He tilts his head up, eyes hungry and thrown open. All attempts at seduction are out the window, it seems. She slips her fingers up into his hair and his eyes flutter, a barely-detectable groan escaping him when she tugs gently.

“Really,” she says, and leans down to kiss the edge of his mouth. “Not a thing you can do about it.”

She knows she’s teasing him, is well aware of the potentially precarious ledge she’s walking on.

He growls and grabs her hips, yanking her down harshly until she’s seated in his lap.

“We’ll see,” is all he says, and then he’s kissing her.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s nothing like the last time he kissed her, hesitant at first, affectionate in the middle, fire starting to burn at the end. No, this time, he pulls the air from her lungs and replaces it with _him_. His fingers curl around her waist again, this time venturing under her clothes, smoothing over her ribcage and curving against her hips. She already knows where this is going to end, so she opens up when he nibbles at her lip, and curls her hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer.

He seems to be of the same mindset, because his hands travel farther up her ribs until they brush her breasts, cupping them and rubbing his thumbs across her nipples until they pebble under his touch. She moans, enough for him to swallow it down and pull her even closer, pressing them flush, chest to chest. His hands slip from under her clothes and cradle her head, giving himself the perfect angle to kiss her senseless.

Emma, meanwhile, scrabbles at his shoulders, finally slipping fingers under those buttons. She pulls away just enough to wedge her hands between them and _yanks_ , buttons scattering in either direction as she rips his fancy dress shirt open. She flattens her palms against his chest and pushes the shirt off his shoulders, forcing his arms away from her. He pulls away and shrugs out of the ruined shirt, and she takes the moment to pull her own shirt over her head, tossing it somewhere.

Growling, he surges forward, sealing his lips over her barely-covered breast. He nips and sucks, drawing his lips over her skin. One hand rests at her waist, holding her, and the other slides up the center of her back, burying itself in her hair. He kisses up her chest, sinking down on her pulse point and laving at it. She shudders, gripping the back of his head and the side of his waist. His stomach jumps under her fingers when she shifts, dragging her nails down his abdomen.

She feels teeth on her skin, a quick sharp bite that he soothes with his tongue, erasing the pain as quickly as it had come. He pulls on her hair, tipping her head back, and attacks her neck. He kisses her throat and her jaw, behind her ear and down the side. She gasps when he holds her just a little tighter and worries his teeth into her skin, sucking and biting enough to leave a mark.

“ _Pirate_ ,” she hisses, and he chuckles, the sound deep in his chest and bouncing between the two of them.

“Only if you’re the treasure,” he whispers into her skin.

Dragging his head up, she kisses him this time, hot and hard, pushing him back until her hair falls around them and they’re pressed together from hip to chest. He whines in the back of his throat, and she presses harder. Her hips rock down on his involuntarily, and she can’t help the small sound that escapes her when she _feels_ him.

He shifts his hands down, palms her ass and pulls her against him again, rutting his hips up into hers.

She gasps again, pulling her lips away from him, pushing her hips down to meet his.

“Are we,” she takes another deep panting breath, “just gonna rub against each other like teenagers?”

He grins, sharp and feral.

“Of course not, love. I,” he begins, and punctuates each word with a kiss, “am going to _ravage_ you until nothing else will do. Until you forget all about divorce and living alone in this shoddy apartment for the rest of your life.”

Emma shivers, because that’s not what she wanted to hear. She wants him to _take_ what he’s always _talking_ about. She wants him to fuck her, show her his idea of a good time.

She doesn’t want him to think he can _change her mind_ with just one good lay.

“Yeah?” She says, pushing his shoulders back and leaning away. “You really think so? You must not know me very well if you’re underestimating just how _stubborn_ I can be.”

He smirks, and his hands are back at her ass, pulling her closer.

“Oh, darling. I’m not underestimating you. But I _will_ make you _beg_ …for me to burn that envelope and watch it disappear.”

“I think you’re overestimating _yourself_ , _darling_ ,” she mimics and shifts in his lap, none too subtly rubbing up against him. “You think you’re the best I’ll ever have?” She scoffs and shakes her head, tossing her curls over her shoulders. Leaning in close, she brushes their cheeks together, kisses the edge of his jaw. “I’m signing those papers,” she whispers.

Before she can really register it, he growls, tightening his hold on her, and lifts them both up. She tightens her arms around him instinctively, and then she feels herself hit a wall, hard. It knocks the breath out of her, leaves her gasping, and he swoops in to kiss her, taking advantage of her heaving chest and open mouth. There isn’t much she can do besides wrap her legs even tighter around his hips and he takes advantage of the sudden closeness, rutting them together harshly.

She feels ridiculously turned on; has been half-way there since she saw him, damn it. And the way he’s acting, well, she isn’t objecting. She’s doesn’t want him to treat her gentle and lovingly, like he would if she was actually his wife. This is what she knows; this is what she wants.

Testing to see how far she can push him, she shifts to drop her legs, but he curls his fingers around her thighs and squeezes, pushing her further into the wall. He nips at her lips and slides his hands up her sides, feather light touches that set her squirming.

He tears himself away from her lips and meets her eyes, doesn’t even blink when she curls her fingers around his back and digs under his shoulder blades.

“Is that what you want?”

Instead of answering him directly, she tips her chin up. “Fuck me as hard as you like; it won’t change anything.”

Both of his eyebrows shoot into his hairline, and he shifts his hands up to her waist.

“What if I didn’t? What if I took my time?” He rolls his hips against hers, punctuating each statement with a soft kiss against her neck. “What if I _made love_ to my _beautiful_ wife?”

“She still wouldn’t be your beautiful wife for very much longer,” Emma snaps out, digging her fingers into his back. Her nails aren’t long enough to bring blood up, but she rakes them across his skin anyways, reveling in the hiss that escapes him.

“ _Emma_ ,” he whines, and bites down on her shoulder, worrying at the skin until she’s sure he’s left quite the mark.

“Killian,” she says, and she doesn’t _mean_ to be like this towards him, but it just _happens_. He’s too passionate, too affectionate, to ready to accept her. She doesn’t want him. She doesn’t _need_ him.

Except for how, right now, every nerve feels on fire with need, with desperation that only _he_ can sate.

She would hate herself for it if she wasn’t busy chasing friction between them.

He growls and kisses her again, pressing hard against her one last time before his hands are under her ass again and spinning them away from the wall. His bare chest flexes against her and she clings to him, enjoys the way they rub together as he stalks across the room and pauses to push open the door to her room. He backs them against the door, closing it with their bodies, and pries her legs away from his hips, fingers quickly sinking to her jeans, wrenching the button open and the zipper down. It’s fast enough that she can only react, kicking off her shoes before he strips her pants and underwear off her legs.

She spreads her legs instinctively as he settles on his knees, shoulders brushing her thighs. He grips her leg and throws it over his shoulder, eyes flickering down her chest and taut stomach to between her legs. He leans forward, dipping his head closer, so close, and he inhales, a deep rumbling breath that he lets out, ghosting across her skin. She nearly chokes from the sensation, a sliver of a sound slipping out of her as she tries to keep her balance with her knee hooked around his shoulder.

His lips feel like electric fire when the press into the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, _so close_ , and she actually does shudder when she feels the prick of teeth, a sharp nip followed by the scrape of his scruff. He wastes no time after that, twisting his head around until his lips brush her cunt and his tongue darts out, devouring her wetness like she’s some kind of _treat_. She tries to rock her hips down against him, but he grips her hips and holds them still, his hold hard enough to bruise. He avoids her clit, first, fucking his tongue inside of her like it’s nothing, like she isn’t squirming above him at the movement, like she doesn’t crave more than his fucking _tongue._

He growls when she tries to hook her leg around him to control his movements, and lifts his head, brilliant blue eyes boring into hers.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” His voice is rough and dark, and fuck her, she wants to do everything he says.

She tries her best not to shiver when he returns, but he said nothing about making sounds, so she takes advantage of that and lets out a series of moans, punctuating his every move. He buries himself between her legs, mouth open wide against her as his tongue alternates fucking her and then teasing her clit. When he growls, it vibrates on her skin, the dull scrape of his teeth setting her on edge. It’s embarrassing how good he is at this. God, he’s fucking experienced, knows exactly what combination of vibrating sounds and quick rolling motions will make her fists clench, head hitting the door with a dull thunk.

“Please,” she whimpers, panting hard, and his thumbs make small circles on her hips. He fucks her as deep as he can with his mouth, and lets out a sound that strikes her right in the gut, the barest hint of teeth and his lips bringing her so close. Her legs are shaking, the one over his shoulder shuddering almost as badly as the one barely supporting her.

She’s _so close_ , and he pulls away, abruptly circling her wrists and pulling her away from the wall as he stands. She nearly falls into him, barely catching herself as she tumbles, and his grip barely keeping her up. He leads her to the bed, and she barely processes what he’s doing until he’s behind her and his fingers have slipped between her own, like they’re _holding hands_. His other hand lands on her ass, eliciting a sharp cry from her, bringing her right back from that teetering edge.

“What the fuck-“ she starts, but he draws their clasped hands together behind her back, and pushes, shoving her forward into the mattress, face down.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, “god, Emma, how did I find you.” His hand runs over her ass, dipping between her legs, and she forgets to be angry with him, shifting her hips wider as he rubs gently at her clit.

“Fuck,” she grunts into the comforter, and he bends over her back, pressing kisses down her spine. His hand leaves her clit, and she moans at the loss, but he presses his hips against her ass instead, cock hard and insistent even through his pants. He fumbles for a moment with her bra, and then it’s open, his hand sliding between her body and the bed to grope at her breast as he grinds his hips against her. He squeezes her hand, stupid and affectionate, like they’re walking down a beach together instead of _this_.

Stubbornly refusing to release her hand, he instead pulls his hand away from her chest reluctantly, and she feels him pulling at his pants. His chest is still pressed against her back, mouth inches from her ear, and he keeps up a running commentary on her.

“You’re so special, Emma; and not just because of this. God, you’re funny and you’re sarcastic as fuck, you’re so smart, you could be doing so much better than catching criminals for a living. I could show you the _world_. I could give you whatever you wanted.”

She tries to ignore his words, ignore the small spark of pleasure they ignite in her, the pride that stirs in her gut and the smile that threatens to creep up on her at his promises. He can’t want her, he doesn’t know anything about what he’s saying, anything about her. Not really. Instead, she focuses on what she can feel of his skin, the tickle of his chest hair on her back and the way his thumb strokes across her lower back, fingers tangled tightly with her own. The tell-tale rustle of clothes gives him away, and then she feels his cock, hard and burning against her thigh.

His hand scrambles between them, holding himself against her, and she rocks her hips back, ready for him, more than ready. He groans loudly in her ear as she shimmies her body, and slides his cock over her clit, rubbing against her entrance.

It feels like time seems to slow to a crawl as he finally lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing into her.

_Fuck._

Apparently she’s forgotten some very important details from that first night, she realizes as she tries to spread her legs further, because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he feels huge. It’s probably the angle, she reasons, but it doesn’t help as she sucks in a ragged breath, her body fluttering as he pushes into her. He feels so much bigger than she expected, honestly, and she struggles to spread her legs and rock her hips to adjust to him inside of her, thick and hard. The stretch burns, but she’s so wet, it feels delicious at the same time, walking that fine line between good and bad. He grunts, digs his free hand into her hip as his other squeezes the life out of her fingers.

Gently, she rocks her hips back, trying to draw him in further, and he moans, losing his grip and sinking in the rest of the way.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “Fucking hell, goddamn motherfucker,” she curses, and he huffs in amusement.

“Something the matter?” he asks, brushing hair away from the side of her face. His hips make small rocking motions against her, his cock rubbing against her deliciously, and he kisses her shoulder.

“ _You_ ,” Emma gasps, rocking her hips. “Jesus, you should come with a fucking warning label. Massive ego, giant dick.”

“I’ve been told that before,” he murmurs with a chuckle, and slips his hand down to grab her ass as he rolls his body against hers. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints last time, darling.”

“ _Not_ complaining,” she corrects, and shifts her hips back again, trying to generate some friction. God, she needs him to move, because this is torture, fluttering around him like this as she adjusts to his size.

“Ah, well in _that_ case,” he says and without warning, pulls out and thrusts back in, hard and fast. She stiffens and cries out, squirming under him. He shifts his hand to the side, bracing next to her body on the bed, and squeezes her hand, repeating the action over and over again. “Emma,” he hisses, and then gasps. “Fuck, don’t you know I’d do anything for you?” Burying his head against the side of her neck, he slows his thrusts, squeezes her hand. “So amazing.”

It feels like all of her senses are overloading, unable to cope with the way he’s pressing into her, stretching her until they’re the perfect fit, sliding together easily, unwilling to deal with the words that tumble from his lips, far too intentional for her to pass them off as the heat of the moment. The only thing she can do is twist her head around, facing away from him, and roll her hips back, meeting his next thrust. She just needs the sex, the rush and the desire, nothing more.

He huffs at her bare shoulder when she turns away from him, but doesn’t try to follow her, instead turning his focus to thrusting into her, harder and faster, rocking the bed viciously under them. She does her best to brace herself with her free hand, cursing his need for intimacy, even like this, wishing she had both her hands free. But no, he grips her fingers tight and rubs his thumb against the back of her hand delicately. He whispers something against her neck, and she tries to tune him out, barely acknowledging the sweet nothings, the gentle words that have nothing to do with sex and therefore threaten to pull her apart at the seams.

“C’mon,” she mutters, the only response she is willing to give, “fuck me.”

“I _am,_ ” he snaps back, punctuating the words with a pair of sharp thrusts. 

“Yeah, just like that,” she cries, and realizes maybe if she can keep this up, maybe he’ll stop, maybe he’ll get back to the matter at hand. “Fuck, just like that Killian, right there.” Rolling her hips, she lets out a spectacular moan and eases herself up onto her toes, changing the angle just a little bit.

He groans and leans back, straitening himself up to get better leverage.

“You feel so good,” she whimpers, and shuffles her arm to wedge it under her head, arching her back. “Fuck,” she slurs, and starts to meet his thrusts, not missing how they’ve started to change, the intent behind them different now. Giving herself over to the sensations overcoming her body, the heat burning away inside her, she moans and cries out with every thrust, dragging her hand down between her legs to rub at her clit. She can feel his cock under her fingers, inside her, driving the air out of her lungs with every move of his hips.

When she flutters her eyes, she catches a glimpse of him through the curtain of her hair, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes raking across her body. He meets her gaze, and she feels it into her core, shaking her apart. She slams her eyes shut to escape, but his words echo in her head instead.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and she feels him shudder. God, she _did_ affect him with those words. His thrusts speed up, and she, in turn, picks up her pace on her clit, roughly dragging herself closer to that edge, focusing on the delicious pull of his cock inside of her. Desperate to drive him crazy with her, to make him forget all of his nonsense about _love_ and _fighting_ , she opens her mouth wide, cries out loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and splays her fingers open on her back.

“Gonna fuck me so hard, love it like that, pounding into me, just the feel-“ she cuts her words off with a gasp as he hits that spot inside of her, and heaves a few deep breaths before continuing. “God, your cock,” she moans, and he shudders over her, dropping his other hand between her shoulders, pushing her into the mattress.

“ _Killian_ ,” she whimpers.

He grunts, hard, and fucks her viciously, pistoning his hips into hers as though he doesn’t care about her at all. _Finally_ , is the only thought she can hold onto as she feels her orgasm drawing closer. It builds like an inferno inside her, and then she’s exploding, chasing that incredible high as she stretches out her body, curling her fingers and toes around whatever she can find. Part of her is aware of him gasping over her, his hand feeling almost fragile in hers, but it’s all white noise.

There’s a heavy weight on her back, a sharp burn against her neck as something rubs against it, and then she hears the words, drifting softly through the sound of their harsh breathing.

“I love you,” he says, and she closes her eyes.

Slowly, she realizes he’s still thrusting, albeit slow and easy, drawing out the movements until he stills altogether, body pressed into hers. Their hands are still tangled together between them, and he slides her arm off of her back, leaning forward to kiss the back of her hand, a move so utterly _familiar_ that it nearly takes her breath away.

Goddamn her, what has she done? Fuck, this was supposed to prove to him that she didn’t care, that he was just a good fuck and nothing more. But he seems to have taken it to heart, his lips pressing gently against the side of her neck as his breathing returns to something resembling normalcy.

She’s tempted to tell him to move, to shove him off of her and crawl up into her bed, under the covers. To fall asleep and pretend that the past six weeks have just been a dream. It would be easy to kick him out, and knowing him, he wouldn’t protest too much, would go without a fight because he _does_ care, even though that very thought makes her head burn.

“Jones,” she mutters, wriggling, and he groans, gripping her hand. “Move.”

He sighs heavily, and slowly disentangles their hands, leaning back and off of her, slipping out of her as he moves away. She resists the urge to whimper, feeling quite suddenly very cold and very empty. Instead, she eases herself forward and crawls up the bed, knowing she’s giving him quite the view of her ass, his come probably slipping down her legs, but she’s too numb to care. She flattens herself on a pillow and limply tries to lift the covers.

Another hand beats her to it, throwing them down and then gently rolling her under them. She wants to curse him for his stupid tenderness, his _caring_. Blinking up at him, she notices the way his mouth opens, he wants to say something, but his eyes rake down her body, and he snaps his jaw shut, apparently thinking better of it.

Good boy.

However, instead of quietly leaving her to her bone-weary exhaustion and incredibly comfortable bed, he slips in next to her, curling his arms around her like he’s _wanted_ here. Part of her welcomes the comfort, the ease with which his breathing matches her own, the way he seems to know that she can’t talk about it right now, that she won’t push him away, either, as much as the stubborn shut-off part of her wants to.

He sighs lightly, and brushes her stomach with his thumb, a small soothing motion that feels far too good. Emma tries to combat the feeling of contentment; after all, she shouldn’t get used to it, shouldn’t appreciate something she’s never going to get to have.

But it’s _hard_ , and she’s so _tired_ for now, just for now, and so she doesn’t say a word, moves just enough to get comfortable, and lets her eyes drift shut.

His lips brush the back of her neck, and she hears something, soft words, but can’t muster the effort to decipher them, finally falling asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, when Emma wakes up, she remembers everything, in deliciously excruciating detail.

Every little mind-numbing touch, every goddamn word.

She groans and tries to curl into a ball, bringing her legs up. But the tight arm around her waist stops her, a soft mumble coming from behind her before the arm shifts and pulls her closer against his body. It’s not exactly bad or uncomfortable, but it stills sets her teeth on edge. It’s not even because of the possessive nature of what he’s doing, holding her like she belongs to him, no, it’s the way he does it so intimately, so simply, like he’s already won.

She’s still as determined as ever, regardless. First, she’ll wake up properly, and then go fix some coffee, maybe some pancakes if she feels like cooking, and she’ll find a pen and sign her name on the dotted line. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll get a good portion of it done before he even decides to get out of bed.

Slowly, she tries to slip her arms under his, to ease him off of her, but apparently luck is not on her side, because he stirs, a muffled sound against her neck before he slowly begins to move, pulling his arms up over his head as he leans back and stretches.

It doesn’t escape her notice that he arches his hips into her, twisting his chest away as he “stretches”. She can _feel_ him smirking, among other things.

“Good morning,” that stupidly attractive voice murmurs, heavy and slightly husky from sleep, and he slides his hand across her waist under the covers, finally resting on the curve of her hip. She stubbornly refuses to respond, but at the same time, she doesn’t feel like moving, not when he leans forward and kisses her shoulder affectionately.

It’s ridiculously difficult to not snuggle back into his warm body, especially with his fingers swirling patterns into the bare skin of her hip, his breath sending goosebumps down her arms.

“And how are you, my love?” He nuzzles at her neck, pulling his body against her back, pressed together from head to toe. “Feeling good? C’mon, darling,” he coaxes, flattening his palm as it drifts down over her stomach and down to her other hip, tugging at her gently. “A little good morning never hurt anybody. I promise I’ll still think you’re a complete hard-ass. “

He peppers light kisses against her neck, and she can’t help but giggle a little bit.

“I’m not a hard-ass. You just bring it out.”

“Ah,” he crows, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans over her and pulls her onto her back. “She speaks!”

Rolling her eyes, Emma resists the urge to grin. “I do, in fact, speak. Congratulations on discovering this.”

“Is that _sarcasm_?” He teases, absently brushing hair out of her eyes, and nope, that’s just a little too far, a little too familiar for her. Abruptly, she sits up, ignoring his question. She curls the sheet around her and stands, pulling it off of the bed with her when she drifts away, headed for her closet. There’s no reason to even leave the house today, so she digs out a pair of pajama pants and a sweatshirt, throwing on a pair of underwear before she dresses hastily, back to Killian.

Surprisingly enough, he makes no comment, and when she turns around he’s still lying in the bed, half up on his elbow, eyes on hers. She’s woman enough to admit he looks like the sexiest mix of adorable and fucked-out, but refuses to allow it to sway her.

“Put some clothes on,” she tells him, and he shrugs, pillowing his hands under his head as he leans back.

“I rather like it like this,” he replies with a wink, shuffling his hips until the covers slip down his hips, low enough to see the jut of his hips and dark hair that very apparently _does_ go all the way down. He’s smirking and cocky as hell, and, yeah, he has a good reason to be, but it’s not doing _her_ any good.

Raising an eyebrow, she picks up the sheet from where she dropped it and deposits it back on the bed. “Are you planning on distracting me with sex? Because that won’t work for very long.” And, okay, maybe he’s rubbing off on her, his nonchalance affecting her, because she smirks and leans towards him just a little. “I mean, I don’t even _remember_ the first time…”

He shoots forward at that, sitting up fully, completely ignoring the way the blanket falls away and he ends up completely naked as he frowns at her.

“Are you suggesting I’m not _memorable_?”

Without warning, he snags her sleeve and pulls, tumbling her into bed on top of him. “I can prove otherwise, love,” he murmurs, nipping at her neck as his hands start to slide under her sweatshirt, ever wandering.

For one long second, she gives in and lets him do it, but then she comes back to herself, remembers what the hell is happening, what he’s trying to do. And goddamn her, she opened the door herself, practically invited him in. She struggles and gets her arms under herself, pushing up off of him and back onto her knees so she can shuffle off the bed.

“Get dressed, Jones,” she mutters, and quickly gets the hell out of dodge, ignoring him when he shouts after her that she ruined his shirt.

. . . . . . . . . . .

When he finally emerges from her room, he’s barely wearing his jeans, top button undone so that they hang criminally low on his hips. She nearly chokes on her coffee when he saunters over to the couch and bends over (quite unnecessarily, thank you) to retrieve his shirt. He pretends to search for buttons for a moment, nearly blatant as he slowly straightens and pulls the shirt around his shoulders. Oh-so-slowly, he puts his arms through the sleeves and turns around, fiddling with the cuffs.

He doesn’t even try to button any of the remaining buttons, and ignores his pants, finally raising his head as he sniffs the air.

“Is that coffee?” He turns like he’d forgotten she was there (yeah, _right_ ) and his eyes alight on her cup as he eagerly makes his way into the kitchen. She watches silently, slightly amused and, goddamn her, turned on, as he bangs around her cabinets until he finds a mug, pouring himself a cup as she surreptitiously watches the way his shoulders flex under his shirt.

She may not appreciate being tethered to him, but that doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate other things. Especially since he’s lost the ridiculous ‘I love you’s and sticks to something she’s more familiar with: good old fashioned sex appeal. It doesn’t really matter that he’s doing it on purpose, because, well, so long as she signs those papers, she can appreciate whatever she likes.

He makes a slightly sinful sound as he swallows his first sip, and turns so he’s leaning on the counter across from her. For a long while he simply watches her, and she lets him, raising an eyebrow eventually when he refuses to look away. His own eyebrows go up in challenge, and he takes another sip of his coffee, never looking away as he appraises her over the top of the mug.

The heat makes her uncomfortable, and she just _knows_ he’s itching to say something, so she rolls her eyes, a quick deflection.  Finally, he sets his cup down and lowers his eyes, firmly glancing around the room before he returns to her.

“So, now what?”

Sighing, she moves towards him, nudging him aside so she can get down a mixing bowl. She needs the distraction if they’re going to get into an argument again.

“You didn’t change my mind, Killian,” she says, her back to him. He huffs, part exasperation and part amusement, before she feels his hand on her waist, gentle pressure. It’s…nice. She doesn’t want to think about it too much, though, because if she does she has a sinking feeling that she would tell him to get away, that she can’t _think_ when he’s treating her like this.

“I know, love,” he murmurs, voice close to her ear as she turns and gathers the supplies for her pancakes. “You’re something of an open book.”

She scoffs, because the other alternative would be to let him see the way her heart races and her chest tightens at the statement.

“If you say so,” she replies with a shake of her head, and brushes past him to her fridge, pulling out what she needs.  When she goes to shut it, his hand is already on the frame, easing it closed as he scrutinizes her.

“Emma,” he starts softly, but she cuts him off, returns to the counter.

“I’m not changing my mind. I told you that last night, and I still mean it.” Absently brushing hair away from her face with the back of her hand, she continues measuring and pouring ingredients, trying to drown out the confusing emotions flittering through her as he watches silently.

“I assumed nothing less,” he says quietly, a hint of resignation in his voice. “But I’m not going to stop, Emma. I think I’m falling in love with you, and yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s true. I think we would work. And I think, despite your protests, you think so too. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

She stiffens, hardly even notices when his hands come to rest on her sides, his forehead tipping to her neck. He gently smoothes his fingers over her stomach, a small soothing motion that makes a valiant effort to relax her.

“I think it doesn’t matter if you sign the damn papers or not, so long as you give _this_ a chance. Just a chance. The rest of the weekend, that’s all I ask.” He presses a kiss to her neck and she can feel him smiling, practically taste his hope.

Swallowing hard, she refuses to turn, finally unfreezing her hands and stirring the batter again. She needs the distraction, needs anything to hide herself from him.

“And what? Do you want to just have sex for the next forty-eight hours?” She asks drily, hoping to deflect.

It doesn’t work. He leans forward, wrapping his arms around her stomach when she doesn’t shrug him off, and his breath brushes across her neck, sending shiver skittering down her spine. She can’t focus and can hardly breathe like this, and it’s not fair. She can’t afford to be vulnerable, to _care_. The last time she did – well, she can’t think about that, too many memories that dig into her like a rusty knife.

“I just want to treat you like you deserve, darling,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder.

That makes her scoff. “Of course you do. And then, like everyone else, you’ll be gone.”

His arms tighten around her and she can feel the anger that radiates off of him, the genuine offense.

“They were bloody _fools_ who never deserved you in the first place.” His voice drops, and he continues. “I would never leave unless you told me too. You have to know that.”

“And if I did? If I asked you to walk out of that door right now and never come back, would you?”

He hesitates for a second before he replies, agonizingly slow. “Then I would do it,” he finally says, and his voice wavers when he continues, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t.”

There’s something there, that agonizing familiarity that screams abandonment and loss. She’d rather not go there, so she pretends he didn’t say anything, a safer reaction. When she steps out of his embrace to turn on the stove and dig out a skillet, he doesn’t follow her. The lack of warmth, of connection, hits her like a wave of frigid air, and she barely contains her shiver. She’s known him all of six weeks, seen him twice in that time, and here she is, missing his presence like they really are married. And it’s just so _stupid_ because he’s two feet away from her and if she were to look at him she knows exactly what she’d find. That searing gaze, the careful way he speaks to her, the careless sex-as-a-weapon look.

She tells herself she’s not making a choice.

She’s putting him to use, since he obviously doesn’t want to leave and she _could_ have worse company.

“Grab that bowl,” she says over her shoulder, and before she knows it, he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with her, and they’re making pancakes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

By the time they finish breakfast, he’s devoured half the can of whipped cream by suggestively licking it off of his hands and then hers when she makes the mistake of trying to grab the bottle from him.

He laughs gleefully at her and smears his sticky fingers on her sweater and she _tries_ to keep a straight face but fails miserably. When they finally stop laughing and finish their pancakes, Emma sits down and curls up on her couch flipping the TV on to see if there’s anything interesting.

Killian sits next to her and stretches his arms out behind them, shirt falling open. He smirks when she glances over and rolls her eyes, focusing on the TV again. She flips through the channels, but it’s just a bunch of daytime crap typical for a Friday morning. Groaning, she flips it off and throws her head back, forgetting that his arm is there.

“Ow,” she says, wrinkling her nose and rubbing at the back of her head. He just smiles and throws his ankle over his knee blatantly.

“You know, if there’s nothing you’d like to watch on television Emma, I could always entertain you.” He gives her a shit-eating grin and a wink that probably has and will make women everywhere swoon.

“No,” Emma deadpans, and he pouts dramatically, leaning closer to her.

“Oh, but it would be _fun_ , love,” he teases, all warm breath and soft vowels.

“You sure you don’t just want to stare into each other’s eyes longingly and tell our life stories?”

For a split second, something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before she can try to identify it. His eyes light up like a small child’s and he leans even closer, snuggling against her side. “Careful there Swan, that almost sounds like you want to get _attached_.”

“I didn’t know you couldn’t recognize sarcasm, Jones,” she retorts, and he chuckles. God, he’s so _happy_ , it’s enough to drive a sane person crazy. At least, it’s enough to drive _her_ crazy. How could she even consider spending forever with him?

Woah, where did that come from?

That’s not – She – No.

Her thoughts are interrupted when he nudges her with his elbow and smiles softly. “So, what do you want to know? I enjoy sailing, eating delicious pancakes, and women in positions of power.” That grin has returned, overtaking him completely.

She should probably elbow him or just get up because that’s just – he’s just so goddamn _annoying_.

 _And perfect_ , a small voice whispers in the back of her mind, but she ruthlessly shuts it down. She’s not even considering him spending time here, really.  So far she just hasn’t found a good reason to kick him out. But it won’t hurt anything to play along, just for a little while. Just until she gets bored.

Drawing her feet up under her on the couch, she turns to face him and leans back on the arm. He’s still smiling at her and she allows herself to feel it for just a second, the same happiness he seems to be expressing.

She shrugs and eyes him carefully. “I don’t know. What should I know about you?”

“Are you asking as Mrs. Jones, or just an interested outsider?” He says after a long minute, only a hint of teasing in his tone.

“Neither, really,” she replies, and he nods thoughtfully.

“There really isn’t too much to tell, love. No family,” and his eyes darken at that, gaze flickering away and she recognizes that loss, that sadness, “one significant other,” he grins cheekily, “and my job…which is basically my life. Well, it’s been my life for a long time.” His voice grows quiet and he shrugs gently, tries to pass it off as something offhand, but she sees more. He blinks and his eyes clear after a moment, meeting hers. “But I’m starting to think I’ve found a new purpose,” he finishes, and his voice is so soft, so suddenly close to her as it wraps around her shoulders and presses closer.

“Charming,” she manages to say, because how else do you respond to someone practically telling you that you’re their happy ending? Especially him.

But he seems to understand, because he grins. “Always, darling.”

They sit in that silence for just a moment, and though it should, it doesn’t feel awkward. She hates that about him, hates that he can say something like that and still look at her like _that_.

He breaks the silence, slipping his hand forward to curl into her hair, twisting a strand around his finger before it slides away. “And what of you, Emma? Family, friends, job?” His voice is quiet, the moment intimate.

She wants to lie, to tell him her folks are back in Maine and she sees them three times a year, that she goes out for drinks with her co-workers every other Friday evening and her job is incredibly rewarding, but he would recognize the lie in a heartbeat. He seems to do that.

Instead, she shuffles her feet and tips her head to the side. “No family, no friends, really, and my job is just what I do. I catch assholes and douche nuggets and get paid for it. It’s got its good days and bad days.”

“Ah, yes,” he murmurs, “bail bondswoman. You’re quite a fierce lass, it makes sense.” He must sense that she doesn’t particularly want to talk about it, that her shoulders stiffen slightly, because he quickly redirects. “Does that mean you chain up the particularly naughty ones?”

And damn him, but he looks attractive with even a leer on his face.

“Handcuffs,” she replies, and nods over at the table by the door where her ID, gun, and cuffs lie. He follows her gaze and grins devilishly. “Why, do you like being tied up or something, Jones?”

“Depends on who’s doing the tying, I suppose,” he says, and plants his hand on the side of the couch, pulling his own feet under him.

He still hasn’t properly put his pants on, and the movement makes them sink even lower, dark tufts of hair coming into view as he leans towards her. And how can you _not_ look at that, really? So, she appreciates the rest of him as he draws closer, and laughs slightly at the absurdity of her situation.

“What’s so funny?” His breath is hot as it brushes across her neck, his head tipped to the side as he takes her in.

“You. This.”

“ _This_?”

And then he’s closing the gap between them, brushing his lips against hers softly. His hand cups the back of her neck, and she lets him draw her in, deepen the kiss. She tangles her hand in his hair and kisses him back, because he was _right_ damn him, sex _is_ more fun than boring TV anyways.

He draws back just enough for their noses to brush gently, and she nearly leans forward, closes the gap again when he speaks.

“Emma, love,” he says, slow and so quiet, so tender, god, it makes her chest ache. That’s not fair because she wants to kiss him senseless and live in this tiny moment forever.

She feels him smile against her lips, and then he kisses her again, one hand curling around her hip as the other cups the side of her face. He presses just a little towards her, and she obligingly lets her knees fall open around him, the shift in position giving her a chance to touch him, to press her hands against his chest and the back of his neck as he slowly deepens the kiss. His lips are soft and gentle and it’s so strange to be kissed like some important fragile thing.

It would be so easy to get accustomed to the feeling of being _loved_.

The rational part of her mind fights it, fights it desperately, because he _can’t_ be in love with her. He doesn’t even know her, except he kisses her exactly how she’s never been kissed and holds her like she’s always needed to be held, arms curling comfortably around her as he makes a soft humming sound into her mouth.

All too quickly, it feels suffocating and she braces herself against him and pushes. He falls away from her and back onto his heels, confusion and then resignation crossing his face.

He watches her quietly as she swallows and looks down at her hands, bunched up in her lap. God, she always does this, fucks up something good right when there might be a chance.

“I need a minute,” she finally says, and quickly stands, pulling away from him, but he snags her wrist and pulls her to a stop.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore, Emma,” he murmurs.

She blinks, and she doesn’t mean to reply, she just means to leave, to go to her room and shut the door, but instead she speaks quietly. “I know,” she says, and then pulls herself free of his limp grip, disappearing into her bedroom.

The door closes quietly with a click, and surely he can hear her body fall against the door as she slides to the ground, and he can probably hear the way she’s shaking, would cry if she _didn’t_ cry.

She’s stupid and insane and there’s no reason to be sitting here alone when there’s a _very_ pretty guy right outside her door offering his heart up on a silver platter.

She stays where she is.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time she manages to calm her breathing and get a grip of herself, she doesn’t really know how much time has passed, just that there’s heat flooding her whole body and she’s beyond embarrassed. He didn’t mean to scare her, she shouldn’t have run, she should have just dealt with it. She’s not scared of him, not scared of sleeping with him or kissing him or making pancakes with him. She’s not even scared of spending all day curled up on the couch with him.

She’s scared of what he feels, of what he’s making _her_ feel.

By his own admission he’s a rich playboy who could have whatever he wanted, any _woman_ he wanted. And yet he seems fixated on her for some reason beyond just sex. It doesn’t make sense to Emma. Men have always wanted sex from her and that’s just the way it is. They hardly ever want more, and every time they have, it’s torn her apart and ripped her insides to shreds because she dared to hope.

That’s a mistake she refuses to make again.

Killian is sweet and charming and it would be so simple to be in a relationship with a man who seems willing to offer anything. But he wants everything from her, everything she can’t give.

He wants her heart, and she barely even remembers what it’s like to have enough to give away.

Easing herself to her feet, her eyes are drawn to her dresser, the sparkly ring sitting right there. She’s surprised he didn’t comment on it last night or this morning, but it’s reasonable to assume he was distracted enough both times.

She picks it up and turns it over, truly examining the ring in her palm for the first time. It’s gorgeous, and she knows she had to have picked it out herself, because it’s exactly what she’s always secretly wished for in a ring.

Squinting down, she notices something in the band that she’s never seen before. Carefully holding it to herself, she barely makes out a one-word inscription, the letters spilling out in a simple script. ‘Surprise’, it says, and she frowns, confused. Not the kind of thing she would expect, honestly, and she has no memory whatsoever of getting it done.

Consumed by the need to know, she forgets that she was ever supposed to be embarrassed, that there’s a reason she was in her room in the first place, and opens the door, eager to question Killian about it.

She doesn’t make it out, in fact, because he’s already there, his back falling awkwardly onto her legs as the door swings open from where he’d been leaning on it.

His face quickly transitions into a smirk as he looks up from between her feet, a pointed glance at her legs on either side of him.

“Oh, god, ew!” He merely chuckles and sits up, taking slightly more time than he should, cheek “accidentally” brushing against her leg as he chuckles lightly. Leaning forward, he quickly scrambles to his feet and faces her.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, tipping her chin up and examining her face, searching desperately for _something_.

It’s too familiar, and she bats his hand away, blinking hard.

“I’m fine. What does this mean?” She holds the ring up between them, and there’s a flash of seriousness before he smirks again and reaches to take the ring from her

Their fingers brush and she flinches away, pretending to ignore the hurt look on his face.

“It’s a wedding ring, love,” he says wearily. “It means, for however short a time, you and I were _together_.”

“I know that,” she snaps at him, taking the ring back. “I mean the inscription. Surprise.”

A soft look comes across him, nearly dreamy in origin, and he smiles. “That’s something I said, actually. After the deed was done, you told me you couldn’t believe I’d actually gone through with it. And I asked if that surprised you. You said it did.” He huffed quietly and ran his finger across the ring, simple gesture that spoke volumes to her.

Clearing his throat, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “And so we decided to get that done quickly, to remind you that I’m always gonna surprise you.” A bitter smile graces his lips, and it looks so wrong on him that Emma almost wishes to wipe it away. “I guess I kept that promise, though not in the way I was hoping.”

They both stand there for a long moment, entirely quiet. He keeps his hands in his pockets and looks at the carpet in her bedroom, flexing his bare toes. It makes him looks so much smaller than he is, vulnerable and young in a way that makes her heart _ache_ because there’s pain in the slump of his shoulders, a desire to hide it from the world that she recognizes too well.

She wonders who he lost. What he lost.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, and she does mean it. Unfortunately, though, she can’t stop herself from saying more. “I don’t know who you lost, or how, but I’m sorry. I can’t…I can’t replace them.”

His head snaps up and for a split second he looks _angry_ , terribly vivid and it looks like a snarl that crosses his face, but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice hard. “I love _you_ , Emma.” He carefully steps towards her, invading her personal space without a care as his eyes flicker to her lips. “It’s just about you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his fingers brush her shoulder, the side of her neck. “All about you.” His voice is husky now, and she’s not stupid, he’s trying to distract her, he’s using…hell, he’s using himself as a weapon.

“Killian,” she says quietly, and he seems to take it as an invitation, closing the distance between them with a sharp move as he kisses her hard, pulling her tight against his body. She fists her fingers against his chest and shoves; he stumbles away from her, a devastated look on his face.

“Please don’t,” she tells him. “Don’t pretend. I’m not _me_ , I’m just some girl who happened to catch your eye. I’m just a replacement for you, some other woman who you can’t have anymore.”

The way his eyes flicker to the side, the downward turn of his lips, it shouldn’t hurt her.

She was never attached to him in the first place, after all.

It doesn’t feel like a knife twisting in her chest at all.

“Emma,” he starts, and pauses to scrub at his face. He steps forward, to ward her, and she scrambles back, hitting her bed with the backs of her thighs and he stops coming. “It’s not like that at all, love. I swear. It has nothing to do with Milah,” he says, and his eyes flutter at that name before he focuses on her. “I – she…she’s long gone. And you’re _you_ , you’re _amazing_ and you don’t even understand. I can’t explain it to you, what you did to me.”

She wishes she could tell if he was lying, if there was some way to be _sure_ because right now she just wants to run, to leave him here before he leaves her, because he will. When he finds out she’s not this angel he thinks she is, when he discovers that she can’t play pretend with him exactly how he wants, when he can’t _use_ her anymore, he’ll be out the door.

Emma has been left her whole life. For once, she just wants to leave before it happens to her.

Quietly, she holds out the ring, presses it into his chest.

“Take it,” she says, and he blinks.

“No. Please, Emma, just give me a chance. God, I owe you so much. I was so _alone_ and you – fuck, Emma.” He curses roughly and wraps his hand around hers, clutching her tightly. “You were the first thing in a long time that’s meant something to me.” His voice starts to crack, and he rushes through the last part. “I can’t lose you.”

She snorts, can’t help it.

He can lose her. He can live without her. Everyone can.

“You’re wrong. You can lose me. I’m not who you think I am; I’m just…me. I’m a lost little girl who’s never had anything, and you’re trying to tell me that that’s beautiful, that you _love me_. You don’t even _know_ me! You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve been though. You can’t love me. Just…don’t pretend.” She shoves hard at him, but he simply rocks back on his heels and holds her hand tighter.

“Then tell me why I can’t possibly love you, Swan. Tell me why it seems so blood fucking impossible for you to accept that someone cares,” he urges, dropping his other arm to her shoulder, gripping it tightly. “I love you, and it’s not enough and I just want to know _why_.”

“Because,” she screams, and before she could stop herself from continuing, the words spill out. “My own _parents_ didn’t want me for a child, my baby couldn’t even survive _me_ , and every fucking man to ever lay a finger on me has walked away! I have lost _every single thing_ I have _ever_ cared about, and _no one_ has ever cared about me. I have a fucking blanket and twenty-eight years of scar tissue and you _cannot_ just walk into my life and _decide_ you fucking love me because you _can’t_.” She finishes loudly, knowing the neighbors can hear and not caring at all as she glares viciously at him. He doesn’t understand. She let people in, by choice or not, and they left her. And oh, god, she told him about – no. She forces the memory down, buries it under mountains of other thoughts memories, ignores crying for weeks and wishing she could have saved them both instead of failing so completely as a mother. Blinking back tears, she forces her back straight, her eyes forward. He will not see her weak, will not see her fall apart.

Before she knows it, before she can stop it, he’s yanking her towards him, roughly drawing his arms around her until it feels like she’s being crushed to death. She struggles against his grip, but he grunts and holds her tighter, pressing his face into the side of her neck.

“God, Emma. Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles into her skin. “Fuck, I’m _sorry_.”

He doesn’t let her go, but shifts, slowly rocking her back and forth in his arms.

It’s not comforting, she tries to tell herself. Just because he’s not running away in horror or disgust doesn’t mean anything. He feels sorry for her now, and she feels broken. But he feels _good_ , and his shoulder is right there, strong and tight and she hates herself so much, hates it, hate – she starts crying. Slowly at first, one small tear that turns into choked sobs that she can’t hold back and she’s so _weak weak weak_. She clutches at his shoulders, his arms, so tight she knows she’s probably hurting him but he says nothing.

“Fuck, Emma,” he finally murmurs. “You’re not weak, stop saying that,” and she realizes she’s been speaking the word over and over again, knees buckling all of a sudden. She crashes to the ground and he follows her, refuses to let go.

She tries to scramble away from him, and his fingers tighten in her sweater for a split second before he lets her go. She tumbles and falls to the floor, flat on her back.

“Just leave me alone,” she manages to gasp out, desperately forcing tears away. Her cheeks are wet already and that’s the problem.

“Is that what you really want?”

 _No_ , her heart cries, and she doesn’t know why.

“I just want to be alone. I want to be _safe_ , Killian.”

She takes a shaky deep breath, and finally meets his eyes. He looks devastated, like she reached into his chest and pulled his heart out.

“You’re never going to be _safe_ , Emma. Being alone doesn’t mean being safe. It just means being alone.”

He’s right. He knows it, she knows it. She’s been alone her whole life and she still finds herself hurt, left behind, breaking down. It’s paper thin protection, being alone. But giving in, that’s so much worse. She could fall in love if she let herself. Fall in love, live the dream, and then lose it all. And _that_ would hurt more than knowing a stranger and watching him leave.

“It’s the only kind of safety I _have_ ,” she finally says, sitting up and pressing her back against the foot of her bed.

“It’s not safety if you have to run away from it, love,” Killian murmurs, kneeling in front of her. His hands slip forward, pressing lightly against her cheeks. She shudders away from him, but he follows her, cupping her cheeks. “Listen to me, I know. Being alone will not protect you. Shutting yourself away won’t keep your heart safe.” He grins wryly. “It certainly didn’t help me when I stumbled across a leggy blonde with the frightening ability to out-drink me and a pair of very impressive…guns.”

His eyes flicker with amusement and Emma can’t help but catch some of it, giggling at the suggestion as she blinks away the tears from before.

“I wasn’t even carrying that night,” she says, and he raises his eyebrows.

“So you _were_ just happy to see me then?” He laughs, warm and fuzzy, catching her up in it. Rolling her eyes, she chuckles.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

“Oh, I’m always _very_ happy to see you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping several octaves in an instant, husky and thick as he leans further towards her, very suddenly narrowing their proximity.

And goddamn her, she sways forward, just enough to brush their noses together. The touch is like an electric fire that sets her skin itching for more, and she wishes she could deny it, that she could pretend she’s not affected. But looking into his eyes, she knows he feels it too, because he takes a deep breath and moves closer, until his nose brushes her cheek and his lips are so close to hers she can practically feel them already.

He’s asking permission.

As though she could say no to him.

She moves that final inch, pressing their lips together softly. For a moment, that’s all that happens. Then his hands tighten over the curves of her cheeks and he pulls her forward, slipping his tongue against her lips until she opens to him. And open she does, grasping for him until her hands find his shirt and she wildly registers how silly it is that it’s still hanging open, that he’s been wearing this ridiculously ruined shirt all day.

One hand of his slides behind her head and he pushes even further into her, pressing her back against the bed. It’s slow, but by no means gentle; he’s almost messy, passionate, and she knows what he’s trying to do, and it’s _working_ , warm affection sliding through her bones as she kisses him back. Her hand slips into his hair, tugging gently, and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, relaxing into her hand.

He angles her head just right and kisses her harder, pouring as much into it as he can, and god, she feels it.  She nearly feels like he’s right, like he does love her. Maybe he does.

Refusing to follow that train of thought, she wraps her arms around his neck and leans forward, pushing him back until she has enough room to scoot back onto the bed. She needs to be reckless right now, too not think about what she might or might not be doing with him.

She pulls on his collar and he stumbles forward on his knees, uncoordinated because he refuses to stop kissing her. His fingers curl in her hair and his other hand comes down beside her hip. His chest pushes up against her knees and she parts them without a second thought, dragging him forward until their bodies are pressed tight, not an inch of space between them. He groans into her mouth and his hands are on her neck, her shoulders, her cheeks, everywhere he can, touching bare skin and pulling her closer, closer.

He kisses her fiercely, buries fingers back in her hair and pulls, just enough to tip her head back so he can brush a line of soft kisses down her jaw. His lips find their way to her neck and he nips at her skin, soothing it with his lips and then his tongue as he finds the special spot. She aches very suddenly, and presses herself against him the best she can, writhing in his arms. Her hands scramble against his shoulders shoving his shirt half-off until his hands leave her and he quickly shucks the offending piece of fabric, his lips never leaving her skin. Moaning, she digs her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him for dear life.

In that second, she has mad, mad thoughts of loving him.

They’re gone as quick as they come, shoved away because oh _god_ , he sucks and nips at a spot, teeth and tongue until she feels delirious.

“Killian, Killian,” she mumbles, and he cuts her off with a kiss, hard and passionate. His hands work their way under her shirt, palms flat on her sides as he slides them up her ribcage, thumbs brushing under her breasts before returning to her hips. She tries to press herself into his hands, but he pulls them away, curling his fingers around the hem. He pulls away from her only long enough to yank her sweater up over her head and then his mouth is on her shoulder, her chest, open-mouthed hot kisses everywhere.

“You. Are. Amazing,” he says, punctuating each word with another kiss before mouthing at the curve of her breast and biting it lightly. She whimpers, hips shifting restlessly. His hands on her hips forces her still, and he finally seals his mouth over a single pebbled nipple, flicking his tongue against it over and over.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” she whines, and he chuckles, the vibrations against her skin making her shudder as his thumbs press small circles into her sides.

“Every single inch of you, bloody amazing,” he mumbles against her skin, finally releasing her with a wet sound. He shifts to her other breast, paying it the same attention. “Every bit.”

His thumbs slip under her pants, under her underwear, brushing against her skin and sending shivers through her as he slowly moves his mouth, kissing her ribs bit by bit, her navel and then he’s nuzzling at her waistband. In one swift move, he curls his fingers and yanks, pulling the rest of her clothes off.  She kicks her feet and he strips the pants off her ankles before his hands are back on her stomach, pressing her flat as his shoulders slip between her legs and god.

_God._

She doesn’t know what she expected, if he’d be fast and rough like last time, if he’d fuck her on his tongue and then nip at her clit, but dear god, she didn’t expect this.

The first thing she feels is his fingers, and then his lips. He kisses her, her clit and then her cunt, tongue slipping out to taste every so often until his mouth is everywhere, and she feels herself seize up because he’s being so delicate, so tender. His lips are soft, and every time he flicks his tongue against her clit, he moans softly, the sounds rattling around in his throat before they hit her sensitive skin. She shivers, and he strokes one hand down her thigh, easing it up over his shoulder. He sucks lightly at her clit and then soothes it with his tongue, long alternating motions that make her ache and burn simultaneously. He’s already proven he’s got the experience, could have probably made her come twice by now, but he holds back, so achingly _gentle_ that her chest aches while her thighs tremble and her belly tightens.

She whimpers his name, because there’s a tide rising in her and it feels like forgiveness and acceptance and it’s terrifying and she’s _scared_ but he casts about for her hand and clutches it tight, pulling away from her cunt long enough to press a searing wet kiss to the inside of her thigh, nuzzling his scruff against the skin softly as he flickers his eyes up to meet hers.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, stroking his thumb across the back of her hand. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. I love you.”

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she tries to do as he says. She’s still scared because she knows, deep down, it’s too late. It’s not even a conscious choice anymore, but she _has_ to make one anyway.

“Fuck,” she curses, and then again, louder, because suddenly his tongue is hot and _there_ , pressing into her as his nose rubs at her clit. She groans, and suddenly it seems so very easy.

“Jesus, I love you,” she whimpers, finally, and it feels like this huge fight leaving her and she knows this doesn’t solve anything, that they still have problems and they weren’t _finished_ damn it but now he _know_ how she feels, why she’s so scared. She barely has time to register the loud growl he makes, and then he’s practically attacking her, bringing her from a steady burn to _right here, right now_ in an instant. His fingers dig into her thighs and she in turn buries hers in his hair, clinging to him for dear life.

She feels so simultaneously loose and wound incredibly tight that she doesn’t even realize she’s about to come until she is, thighs squeezing him as she cries out, a string of curses and then his name, over and over again. He works her though it, gently soothing his tongue across her until she feels over sensitized and yanks him up by his hair, legs falling by his sides.

His eyes are glazed over, hair sticking up, face a wet mess that she drags her thumb across, his cheek and then brushing up against his lips. Seemingly without thinking, his tongue darts out and curls around her thumb, making her eyes flutter as he quietly draws her hand forward, licking her thumb clean before carefully placing her hand on her hip. He kisses the curve of her opposite hip, and then leans forward, rising just enough to plant his knee on the bed so he can reach her for a proper kiss.

He clutches at her cheeks and pulls her forward, up off the bed, and she can’t help it, wraps her arms around his neck as he kisses her senseless. His mouth tastes like her and he moans when she chases the taste, fingers digging into her skin just a little bit harder. He sighs into her, gently easing her back to the bed.

“Move up, love,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing her sides. “For once, I’d like to make love to you actually _in_ a bed.”

“For once?” she asks, shuffling back up without taking her eyes off of him. He looks like some kind of greek god kneeling at the end of her bed, shirtless and smirking.

“God, that’s right. One day I’ll have to give you an illustrated reminder to see if we can jog your memory of that night at all.” He winks and slides off the bed, making quick work of his pants before he rejoins her, crawling back up to meet her.

“Right, ‘cause that totally will work,” she murmurs, but he’s already close enough to kiss her, and so he does that instead of replying, one hand curling around the back of her neck while the other travels down her chest, cupping her breast gently, rolling the nipple between his thumb and finger. He presses their chests together then, hand slipping further until she feels his fingers between her legs. She can feel him, hot and hard against her thigh, but he seems in no hurry, kissing her leisurely as his fingers circle her clit slowly before finding her cunt, wet and slippery. He works one inside of her, crooking it just right to make her arch up into him, and he chuckles, pulling away from her to kiss her neck again.

“God, Emma, _fuck_ , you look so gorgeous when you come. So pretty, mouth open like that, just ‘cause of me.” He nuzzles at her neck and works another finger into her, idly playing with her hair as he braces himself over her. His lips find _that_ spot again and she cries out, startled and abruptly done with teasing. Reaching between them, she knocks his hand away from her and grips him herself. It’s a very abrupt reminder that he’s probably bigger than anybody else she’s been with, and fuck, his hips jump and his teeth press into her skin as he lets out a low sound against her.

“Jesus,” he groans, and nips at her shoulder. “Skip right to the good part, eh, love?”

“Shut up,” she snaps back, and shifts her hips wider, gripping his cock with one hand and his hip with the other. He lets out a strangled cry when they touch, cock slipping against her wetness, her body fluttering in anticipating. Cursing violently, he shifts up onto his elbows and slips against her even more, his head hanging between them as he clearly struggles to keep from thrusting past her hand and right into her.

Gently, she shifts her hips down and bites her lip, guiding him into her. He lets out a long low sound that almost sounds like a growl, feral and deep, and his fingers turn into fists against the sheets as she rocks her hips to take him in. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling; a heady electric buzz under her skin, the stretch of him filling her up so agonizingly slowly, so _full_ , god.

When she pulls her hand away, he sinks in deeper, making her moan, clutching at him, before he corrects and slows.

“Fuck, Swan,” he grunts, and slides a hand down her side, lifting her hips just enough to get a better angle. “God you’re tight.” He curses again, circling his hips until he’s completely inside of her, so deep she swears she can feel it in her throat. And then he lifts her thigh, pressing it against his hip, and they both groan, that last little bit making all the difference.

He stays there, circling his hips as she adjusts to him, and god, does she. This time, she can watch him, watches the myriad of emotions flicker across his face before he apparently settles on adoration, leaning down to steal a quick kiss from her. He does something with his hips that feels _amazing_ , and she gasps, something he quickly takes advantage of to deepen the kiss. She bats at his chest, and he chuckles, nosing at her jaw and then neck.

“You good?” His voice is low and husky, his words stunted. Emma knows how much he wants to make it last, make it sweet and good and gentle, but she can feel the tension under his shoulders, the way his hips rock in restless movements against her.

“Have at it,” she murmurs, and meets his gaze, nodding slightly.

He surges down, kissing her hard one last time before he starts to move, slowly pulling out of her before sliding back in again, two smooth movements that he repeats, over and over again, building a rhythm that makes her cunt throb and her belly ache, craving more. She feels nearly delirious off of him, light, like she could float away if he wasn’t anchoring her down right here, hot and heavy and hard.

The next time their hips meet, she bucks hers, driving him deeper, and they both groan, panting hard as he pulls out and slams back in, chasing that same sensation. She braces her feet against the bed and meets his thrusts, a sheen of sweat quickly picking up on both of them.

It’s not exactly gentle or sweet, but she gets the picture.

His face is buried in her neck, mouth working over her skin, small sounds slipping between them every so often when she moves. Gripping his hair, she pulls him away and kisses him, needs him to know. She gets it. She does. It’s a messy kiss and they can’t keep it up for long, his head dropping until they’re both distracted by the way his cock looks sliding into her, spreading her open. Emma loses her train of thought completely, and he presses his forehead into her shoulder, groaning softly.

“I love you so much,” he says, and it sounds broken so she doesn’t dare face him. She wants to tell him she loves him too, but it seems too much, the words welling up behind her throat and staying there uncomfortably. Instead, she offers the only thing she can, the only acceptance she can muster, and hopes it’s enough.

“I know, I know,” she murmurs, clinging to him. “God, Killian, I know.”

His hands dig into her sides and he buries his face in her neck, his thrusts picking up their speed until he’s grunting and groaning with every movement, driving her absolutely crazy from the slip-slide of him moving between her legs.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pressing them together until all she can feel is him, skin sliding against skin, him moving against her, inside of her. The fire is steadily burning her hotter, closer and higher, and she knows he must be getting close too, his grunts just a little more forceful to match his thrusts. He hurriedly shifts position, lifting her hips with a groan, and pounds into her again, chasing the feeling of her. She moans at the movement, opens her mouth against the side of his neck and breathes hot against his skin, nipping gently before she seals her mouth over it and sucks. His hips stutter and he groans, fingers digging into her hip roughly.

“Fuck, Emma, so close,” he slurs, voice rough. He bucks his hips into hers and picks up speed, nearly viciously, slamming them together over and over again as his movements become more and more sloppy. It’s nearly too much, him pumping into her hard and fast, bodies pressing together slickly. She chases the feeling hard, rocking her hips up to meet him, chasing her own orgasm. Digging her heels into the mattress, barely keeping her from sliding with his every thrust, she sinks a hand between them, pressing roughly at her clit until she starts to feel the sparks start deep under her skin in her belly.

He curses and cries out as she comes, hard and fast, clinging to him tightly with every inch of her body, and follows her over the edge. She says his name, nearly a whisper, and he clutches at her, scruff burning her skin as he makes muffle sounds into her neck. His body stiffens and she feels the warm rush of him inside of her, only drawing her orgasm out. Slowly, they come down together, breathing hard and fast, still intertwined, fingers barely relaxed on skin, legs tangled together.

After a long moment, he chuckles quietly into her neck and lifts his head.

“I hope that was memorable, love.” His eyes sparkle teasingly, and he kisses her nose.

Emma rolls her eyes and shifts slightly, the movement drawing her attention to where they’re still pressed tightly together. He groans softly, and slips out of her, shifting to the side just enough to roll over with her.

“Memorable enough,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, but he laughs and pulls her back tight against his chest.

“I think it was plenty memorable,” he teases, and nuzzles at her neck. “I think _you’re_ plenty memorable, darling, those beautiful breasts, that perfectly aching center, so tight and wet for me…” He shifts his hand around her waist, cupping her breast while he whispers the words hotly into her skin. “You’re enough to drive a man crazy, show him salvation.”

“Although,” he continues, “I think you’re the one who found salvation. That’s a brave thing, telling Jesus you love him…”

“Wha-?”

He laughs at her confusion, and she elbows him in the stomach, quickly bringing that to an end.

“Ow, love, I’m teasing you, I promise. I love you too,” he murmurs into her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the skin under her ear. His arm around her waist tightens, drawing her back against him, and despite her initial reluctance, she softens in his arms, lets him do it. “Thank you,” he says finally. “I knew you were strong enough, I knew you could do it. And I don’t need you to say it. I just need you to know _I_ mean it.”

“ _Now_ you tell me,” she grumbles half-heartedly, and he chuckles, a small smile gracing her own lips.

“Apologies, then, my dear. How can I _ever_ make it up to you?” His hand drifts lower, brushing her hip and then her thigh as he leans in and presses a line of kisses down her neck. She sighs into it, the warm unfamiliar feeling of being safe and adored washing over her. He slowly creeps his hand between her thighs, fingers brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs.

“I’m still planning on signing those papers,” she blurts out, and nearly clamps her hand over her mouth as he stiffens behind her. God, why did she have to say that? Why does she do this?

Slowly, his hand returns to her hip, pulling back on her until she’s lying flat next to him. She can’t meet his eyes, can’t look at him. “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t. I know you care and I care too but…I just need a clean slate.”

She’s terrified he’s going to just leave her now, that this is all he wanted was for her to stay married to him. Twisting her fingers in the blankets, she sits up slowly, turning away from him and casting around blindly on the bed for the sheet.

“Emma, Emma,” he reaches for her arm, pulling her back to him. “Emma, it’s okay. I get it.” He leans forward and curls his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a half-hug. “I love you, I don’t care if you want to stay married or not, so long as you want to stay with me.”

He pulls away and shrugs, cupping the back of her neck. “I had hoped maybe that you would, but I don’t need some piece of paper keeping us together,” he murmurs, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. “Honestly, I always expected your stubbornness to lead to this.” He chuckles softly and pulls away. “You like to keep your promises. Though, I think I won in the end. After all, I convinced you to let me have a chance. And it only took a day.”

He gives her a goofy grin, and brushes her hair away from her face. It’s infectious, and she can’t help but grin.  

“I _let_ you win, pirate.”

His eyes spark, and she feels that warmth seep into her bones again, comforting, assuring.

“Back to the pirate thing, eh? Does that mean there’s treasure somewhere that needs to be… plundered?” His voice drops carefully, eyes flickering down across her body. “I’m sure I can rise to the occasion,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his mouth against the curve of her neck. “Just let me go find my hook, darling…”

She rolls her eyes, but still wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him tight as he slowly eases her back onto the bed.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her skin, and she doesn’t feel like she needs to escape, like she needs to find a way to get out of here, to get away from him. She actually feels…loved.

Locking her legs around him, she pushes up and rolls them over, surprising Killian, who gasps and then chuckles, shimmying under her thighs. He soon changes tone, though, gasping again, sharper this time as she leans down and trails her lips down his chest, nipping his skin and rocking her hips down when he groans.

“I love you too,” she mumbles, finally, into the skin over his ribs, and she’s so quiet she doesn’t think he hears her until his arms are around his shoulders and he pulls her up, curling one hand around her neck for a fierce kiss.

When he finally pulls away, he gives her a smile, brilliant and wonderful and she wants to kiss him again.

So she does.

 

(They spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, and he proves to her again and again that he’s more fun than _anything_ in the TV)


	7. epilogue

“Ow,” a voice groans from the opposite side of the bed, finally drawing Emma out of that hazy place between waking and sleeping. She’s actually a little upset; she’d been having a nice dream that involved puppies and small children, which in of its self is shocking.

Less shocking is the look on Killian’s face when she rolls over. At least, the look on what she can see of his face; he’s sprawled across the bed, face smashed into a pillow with another held down on top of his head. He looks like he just tasted something incredibly unpleasant. She hears a muffled groan, and snorts.

“I told you not to do it,” she mutters, and he growls at her. “Hey, I’m just saying, I _knew_ I didn’t want a repeat of our first wedding night.”

“Unlike _some_ people, I remember everything when I drink.”

Rolling her eyes, she shuffles closer to him and he moves just enough to drape his arm around her waist, pulling her closer against his side. “I could have died from alcohol poisoning, Killian, that’s how much I must have drank.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, I wouldn’t have let you _die_ ,” he mutters into the pillow, finally turning his head to the side to look at her. A soft smile slowly drifts across his features as he takes her in, and he brings his hand up to push hair away from her face. “Even dying from a hangover, I can still tell you’re beautiful,” he comments absently, and strokes his thumb over her cheek.

Despite that this is far from the first time she’s woken up to comments like this, she still feels heat rising under her skin. The bastard grins at that.

“Always blush so prettily, love.” He curls his head closer, shifting his body until his side is nearly on top of her. “I’d wonder how far it goes, but I already know,” he continues, and drops his hand to the curve of her waist, smirking.

God, but he’s insufferable. The worst part is that she doesn’t even mind anymore, that she cherishes his stupidity now. She’s so hopelessly in love with him, even after all this time, that it doesn’t matter. Trying to keep herself from grinning like the fool she is, she tangles her hand in his hair, massaging his scalp.

He lets out a practically sinful groan, and relaxes instantly.

“Seven hells lass, that feels amazing.” His eyes slip shut, and she uses that moment to close the gap between them, gently brushing their lips together. He exhales into the kiss and cups the back of her neck, lazily refusing to let her pull away. It makes warmth creep into her body and spread, from her toes to her fingers, and she makes a pleased sound at the back of her throat. Apparently it motivates Killian, because he nips at her bottom lip and deepens the kiss when she gasps, rolling over until he’s hovering over her.

She giggles and breaks the kiss, cupping his cheeks as she looks up at him and he grins, dragging his hands down her sides until they rest pleasantly on her hips. His hair is ruffled from her fingers, and she smirks, rubbing her hands through his hair again, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut and his face goes slack.

“Here I thought you were feeling miserable, Mr. Jones,” she says with a grin, and tuts at him.

“Mmmm, for you, love, I’ll feel anything,” he replies with a murmur, and buries his face against her neck, lightly biting at the skin there before he soothes it with kisses and travels slowly across her chest, a hand coming up to cup her breast. “Anything at all, Mrs. Jones…”

“It sounds weird to hear you say that – oh!” She gasps sharply, fingers digging into his scalp when he closes his lips around a nipple and tugs slightly. He doesn’t let up, laving his tongue against her skin and biting gently at her until she’s shifting restlessly, clutching at him, something he seems to enjoy.

“It’s what you are,” he mumbles against her skin, and dips his head, pressing a ridiculously chaste kiss between her breasts. “Mrs. Jones. Again.” And then he lifts his head and gives her the fucking brightest smile she’s ever seen, practically ready to split his face off.

“Never thought I’d see you so happy,” she says with a grin, and he chuckles, planting a quick kiss on her.

“I’m the happiest man alive,” he proclaims, puffing out his chest enough to send her into a fit of giggles under him, rolling out of his arms. He pouts at her, but can’t keep it up very long himself before dissolving into laughter.

“That was ridiculous,” she chuckles, and he grins, pulling her back against him.

“Hush, that was romantic.” Emma rolls her eyes, swatting playfully at his shoulder

“Yes, so romantic. Look at me. I’m a quivering mess. Oh. Take me now, husband,” she deadpans, and he laughs against the back of her neck, nuzzling at her hair.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll take care of you.” His voice is low and rough in her ear, and suddenly he’s touching her, hands brushing across her side and then thighs until his fingers brush between her legs, barely touching her. He kisses her neck and she hums softly, pressing back into him.

“Only you could make that actually romantic, Killian Jones,” she murmurs, and he chuckles.

“It took two remarkable years to get you to agree to marry me again, love. Don’t think I’m letting you out of this bed for at least another day. Hangover be damned.” His arm tightens around her waist and he kisses the back of her neck.

“Well,” she shrugged, none-too-subtly shimmying her ass against him, grinning when she feels teeth on her skin, “I’ve heard orgasms can help with headaches. I mean, it’s probably just a myth. But, uh, we could experiment. For science.”

“Let it never be said I’m opposed to scientific progress, then,” he chuckles and pulls her back so he can kiss her properly. He easily settles between her thighs, touching every inch of skin he can reach, kissing her until she can’t feel anything but him.

He kisses her for a long time, kisses her and loves her and she can hardly breathe, she feels so loved, pretty fucking cherished, in fact. He’s done that since the day he met her, and it took her far too long to trust him, because now she can hardly imagine life without him, without waking up every morning to bed hair and soft blue eyes. After, she presses her head against his chest, listens to his heartbeat and stares at her hand as she draws circles on his chest.

Her wedding ring sits pretty on her finger, and his is old and scratched because he never took it off, but they still make a matching pair when he reaches for her hand to hold it.


End file.
